


Homesick

by TrxyesSivan (GideonGraystairs)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF, tronnor - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Absent Parents, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bitterness, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5692999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GideonGraystairs/pseuds/TrxyesSivan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Troye hates hospitals almost as much as he hates the rest of the world. He hates stupid pediatric nurses with their stupid pink scrubs and he hates the scolding looks they give him as they tell him he's lucky to be here. Troye doesn't feel lucky. If he'd had it his way, he wouldn't be here, wouldn't even be alive anymore. He's not being over-dramatic or selfish or whatever other bullshit they seem to have latched onto- he's just being honest.</p>
<p>So, naturally, he's less than pleased when he gets transferred up to psych until they decide he's no longer 'a danger to himself'. The whole thing is stupid. Stupid and pointless and a waste of everyone's time except maybe that cute boy who doesn't really belong in the crazy ward they're both stuck in. Maybe it's not that stupid after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homesick

× _Call it survival, call it the freedom of wills; where breath is borrowed, our compass needle stands still. Our resignation only comes on beaten paths._ ×

 

The hospital walls are pristine pastels of yellow and blue. The bed sheets are printed pumpkin orange flowers on a background of faded grass green, the pillows patterned with off-white doves suspended in a cloudy sky.

The lights are powered by a false sense of hope and happiness, lies painted into train cars running their tracks across the walls. There's a plastic jack-o'-lantern sitting on the end table, staring wide-eyed at the baby blue wall across from it.

It's barely been ten minutes and Troye hates everything about the pediatrics ward already.

The nurses flitting in and out of his room are obnoxious and chirpy, dressed in soft pink scrubs and neon tennis shoes of varying ghastly colours. The parents hovering in the hallways outside of his door are too weepy or too happy, either way clinging disgustingly to each other as they look on at children still clutching onto some naïve illusion of innocence.

He hates the colourful decor and Halloween stickers plastered in the windows. He hates the people, who take up too much space and breathe too much air. He hates the sheets and the rock solid bed and the stupid fluffy pillows with the birds. He especially hates the machine he's attached to, a loud ugly thing that beeps consistently seemingly every millisecond. It's an even more annoying sound than the happy couple in the room across from his rejoicing over their toddler's supposedly miraculous recovery.

Troye also hates whoever decided to leave the door to his room open.

He groans in frustration, shoving his head back into the mound of hospital pillows until his irritated blue eyes are fixed on the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, there's bird and cloud decals plastered up there, too.

He's seventeen, for fuck's sake. Why is he still stuck in the toddler ward? In fact, why is he stuck in any ward at all?

Troye knows the answer to that. It'd be a little hard to miss the bullet wound in his shoulder, let alone the psych residents hovering outside his room like he's some precious treasure chest they all just can't wait to pry open.

Experimentally rolling his shoulder back, Troye winces at the pain that shoots through him as a result of the minute movement. He can't help but snort at his thoughts' ironic choice of words. That, and also vindictively curse Steele for trying to grab the goddamn gun. If he hadn't, Troye wouldn't be in any pain right now. He also wouldn't be stuck in freaking pediatrics of all places.

He groans again. Maybe if he does it enough someone will take pity on him and get him something sharp to stab himself through the heart with.

He almost thinks it works, too, when the door to his room gets pushed open a little ways further and a smiling female doctor makes her way over to him. She stops at the end of his bed, pulling his chart up to skim over. Smile twitching uncertainly, she turns her head back up to face him, curled blond hair bouncing behind her.

"Troye, is it?" she inquires happily like she hasn't just read his full name at least a dozen times over. Her diorite eyes are a little off, too piercing and pointed and the eyebrows above them far too judgmental.

He hopes she'll keep her whole 'You have so much ahead of you and you just want to throw it all away like this? There are people actually dying here who would give anything to be as healthy and able as you are,' spiel to herself. He's heard it already, ten minutes ago when he woke up to two nurses and a surgical resident hovering over him like open-mouthed piranhas.

Troye resolutely stares her down and doesn't say a word.

She coughs awkwardly, clearing her throat as she glances down at his chart again. "Well, Troye, there's good news and bad news. The good news is you're going to be just fine. The bullet was discharged into your shoulder close enough for it to be a straight in and out. It's going to be a little tender for a while, as can be expected, but we managed to stitch you right up and get it nice and clean so there won't be any worry of infection as long as we keep rinsing it out every two days."

She pauses, taking a minute to gather her thoughts and smiling falsely at him as he scowls back at her. Every two days? Just how long are they expecting him to stay in this shit-show?

"The bad news," the doctor starts up again a moment later, giving him the exaggerated frown you generally reserve for two year olds pitching fits over getting the blue stuffed animal when they wanted the red one, "is that this means you will have to remain in the hospital for the next week or two, depending on how things go. Unfortunately, you won't be able to stay cozy with us here in pediatrics, either, as your case is more in the psychiatric field now that your injuries have been tended to-"

"Psych?" Troye cuts in disbelievingly. "You're handing me off to the crazy ward?"

The doctor gives him a practiced patience kind of smile, her lips painted the same shade as the train cars on the wall behind her. "Don't you worry, they're very welcoming and the chocolate pudding is gre-"

"I don't give a fuck about chocolate pudding," he snaps. Her eyes go wide in shock as her knuckles tense around his chart and Troye fixes her with an unrelenting angry glare. "If I'm fine enough to pass off to the psychos, then I'm fine enough to go home. Where are my parents? I know they'll say the exact same thing. No way would they agree to this."

"Actually," the doctor informs him firmly, sounding not quite apologetic as she raises a single unimpressed eyebrow at where he's weighed down by a mound of hideous covers, "they already have."

Troye clamps his mouth shut at that, resolutely turning away to scowl down at the stupid flowers as he picks at the sheets. Why couldn't Steele have just knocked first for once in his pathetic life?

"Right, well. As I was saying," the woman with the awful red lipstick and the annoying blond curls starts in again. "We'll give you another day to rest up and recover from your surgery and then first thing tomorrow we'll move you into your new bed upstairs. Any questions?"

When she receives no response, she gives him another unimpressed look before defaulting once again to her original lipstick smile. His chart clicks back onto the end of the bed with a snap almost as annoying as the beeping of the heart monitor and her bright pink shoes slap loudly against the linoleum floor in an offensive rhythm.

"You're a lucky guy," she says suddenly, pausing in the doorway. "If your brother hadn't been there, you wouldn't be _here_."

Troye doesn't say anything as she finally slips out of the colourful room and into the equally obnoxious hallway. He glares at the stupid pastel walls with their stupid red trains and the stupid green sheets and the stupid happy couple across the hall.

He doesn't feel lucky. If he'd been lucky, the bullet would have gone straight through his brain and saved him all this torture.

 

×

 

"This will be your room for the duration of your stay here. Bathroom's through that door there if you need it. You're free to wander around as you like, but hallway E is restricted access only. I'd also advise you avoid riling up the other patients, if you can. That's just an unnecessary hassle for everyone, frankly."

The psychiatric nurse casts a glance back to where Troye's hovering behind her with a scowl and heaves a tired sigh when she's finished speaking. Her hand's still resting on the light switch she's just flicked on, but she removes it now to reach out and take his belongings from him. Setting them on the end of the pristine grey bed, she turns back to him with a softer expression than before.

"If you need anything," she tells him firmly, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder,"and I mean _anything_ , you come find me. Just ask for nurse Jackie, okay?"

Troye stares at her, brows furrowing as he glances behind her at the room he's supposed to call his own for the next week or so.

The walls are pale blue faded mostly to grey with grey sheets on a grey bed under a grey ceiling. There's a bare dresser of cracking wood shoved unceremoniously into one corner, the same scratched colour of feces as the bathroom door branching off to the right. He's also pretty sure they stole the lighting right off a crime show interrogation scene.

Troye's starting to think maybe the toddler ward wasn't so bad.

The nurse, Jackie, must read something in his expression because every ounce of tension leaks suddenly away from her body. She gives him a soft, sad smile, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

"You won't be here forever, kid," she assures him softly. "It's not as bad as it looks."

He manages an uncertain raised eyebrow, finally meeting her eyes. "I think I'll make my own mind up on that one."

She chuckles, clapping his shoulder one last time before slipping out the door behind him. "Fair enough."

Troye takes a deep breath the moment she's out of sight. He moves to the bed, running deft fingers along the rough cotton sheets and up over his tattered navy notebook sitting at the end. The pages are loose and torn, hanging out and stuffed inside at every possible place.

Well-loved is the word someone softer might have used. Troye just thinks it's falling apart.

At least nurse Jackie seems much less annoying than that stupid doctor had yesterday.

He sighs, withdrawing his hand from the pitiful pile of belongings he'd brought with him. Stuffing it instead into the deep pockets of his faded jeans, Troye gives the room one final glance-over before deciding there's no way he's spending any more time in here than he has to. It makes his fingers twitch with the urge to wrap around his neck and squeeze just thinking about it.

He flicks off the light as he exits, closing the door behind him as softly as he can. It's a habit too far ingrained into his mind from too many late nights sneaking outside for him to even think about what he's doing, not that it really matters.

The hallway stretches off in three directions. To his left, there's a bend a little ways down and an unwelcome aura spilling off it in waves. To his right, it stretches three times as long and is much better lit, posters stuck up along the way and branching off into what must be the main area of entertainment for every crazy to enjoy. Directly in front of him is a rectangular outcropping with what looks to be the entirely abandoned front desk and another hallway Troye's eighty percent sure is identical to his on its other side.

He turns left.

Much to his surprise, it actually branches off both ways at the end and he finds himself having to pause again in consideration. Eventually he decides he's probably less likely to get lost in this apparent maze of a psycho prison if he just turns left again, so he does. His hospital issued slippers slap loudly against the linoleum with every step that he takes until eventually he makes it five feet down the next hall and simply tosses them at a green plastic bench sitting innocently nearby.

The next hall Troye turns down isn't nearly as empty or dead silent as the last. There's another bench just past the halfway point, lonely and pitiful and very uncomfortable from the looks of things. Except this one has a boy who looks about Troye's age curled up on top, knees drawn in and head pressed down against them.

He's crying, soft sniffles that resound sharply across the grey cement ceiling and white linoleum floors. Troye pauses where he is when the sound hits his ears, eyeing the shivering guy uncertainly. He doesn't do comfort or niceties, doesn't really do much apart from glares and spitfire insults. Troye's very good at making people hate him enough to leave him the hell alone.

Which doesn't explain why he's gnawing his bottom lip and padding over to the bench with his sock-clad feet on the hard hospital floors. It especially doesn't explain why he sits down beside the sniffling boy and sighs.

His companion's sobs die down the moment the bench sinks under his weight, retreating into the trembling form beside him with a great amount of difficulty. Troye doesn't say anything at first, just sits there and stares at the white brick wall across from them, at the poster for exercise aiding mental health pinned up and falling down. If they expect him to start working out as some perceived form of 'treatment', they've got another thing coming.

Troye rests a hand gently on the crying boy's shoulder, the closest thing to comfort he can think of, and curses himself for not waiting until the house was empty to grab the gun. None of this would be happening if he had.

"Why are you here?"

He almost misses the quiet question shakily filling the uncertain air between them. It's not until he turns his head and comes face to face with a pair of shadowed green eyes that he realizes it's coming from the kid beside him.

He swallows, lets out a nervous laugh, and runs a hand through his tangled mess of chocolate curls. "I think I'm lost, actually."

The boy frowns, his head still resting on his knees though it's now turned toward Troye. "That's not-" he cuts himself off with a frown, shaking his own mess of brown hair. "Nevermind. Nice to meet you Lost, I'm Connor."

"Apparently you're my dad, actually," Troye counters easily, rolling his eyes. He feels like he might be smiling on the inside a little bit, though, but he brushes that off as ridiculous. When was the last time he even thought about smiling?

"If you're into that," Connor throws back with a lopsided grin and brighter eyes than before. "I can work with a daddy kink."

Troye just rolls his eyes again, the muscles of his face twitching unfamiliarly. Connor's own eyes are still bloodshot, still exhausted from crying, and his body is still hunched in on itself, but his smile's kind of nice nonetheless.

"Troye," he informs him in a spur of the moment decision, stretching a hand out to shake because as much as he hates the whole world, there are still some conventions he'd feel weird not to honour. Besides, Connor's hand is warm in his own and firmer than he thought it would be, more of a comfort than the lack of affection he's received his whole life.

"I tried to kill myself," he sighs because he knows that's what Connor really meant when he asked why he was here. He just hadn't wanted to tell him that.

"Oh," is the response, green eyes blinking in surprise. Connor bites at his lip, frowning as he looks away. "I'm just here because they didn't have enough room downstairs. I'm waiting for a heart and they're worried if they send me home and something happens, they won't be in time to save me."

Troye blinks his own surprised ocean eyes at him. "Oh," he agrees, turning back to the ripped poster on the wall across from them. "Why were you crying?" he asks, a frown furrowing his brows as he tries not to feel like maybe he's pushing it too far. If it were him, he's not sure he'd want anyone to ask him that.

But Connor just smiles like a ghost and lets out a short hollow laugh, running a hand down his face to wipe away the tear tracks. "I hate this place," he says and it doesn't really answer the question, but this is something Troye's at least marginally familiar with.

"Me too," he replies, twitching his lips into a smirk. "It looks like it should be in Criminal Minds or something."

Connor perks up at that, snapping his head toward him. "That's exactly what I was thinking!" he proclaims excitedly.

Troye laughs. It's short and soft and barely even a laugh but his eyes are brighter and the tension in his muscles is gone and he _laughs_ , despite the fact that he hasn't _really_ laughed in as long as he can remember.

It feels strange in a way that settles deep into his core and has his stomach flipping over on itself. He doesn't want to think about that now, about how much it hurts that no one even noticed anything was wrong or that single moment of uncertainty right before he steeled himself to pull the trigger.

He doesn't want to think about anything except maybe how this boy he's known for all of ten minutes has somehow made Troye feel like he's wanted for the first time in years.

It's weird. Maybe he doesn't really want to think about that, either.

"What's there to do around here, anyway?" Troye questions after a moment, simply for lack of anything better to say. The silence isn't uncomfortable, just unfamiliar and frankly Troye's never much liked the unknown.

Connor's expression is thoughtful, arms slipping from around his legs as his feet hit the ground with a slap. He's still got his own blue hospital slippers on, though they're significantly more worn-down than Troye's had been. He wonders briefly how long he's been here for, how bad his condition must be to need a whole new heart, before shaking his head and snapping to himself that it's none of his business. He barely knows Connor and, if it were him, he wouldn't want to be pried at over things that really don't concern the other person.

"They do a lot of artsy things in the entertainment room," Connor informs him suddenly, effectively derailing his spiraling train of thought. Troye frowns, for a moment forgetting what he'd asked, before mentally smacking himself and leaning forward on the creaky plastic bench.

"Go figure," he replies tiredly because of course this place is something right off of TV in every way possible. That would probably make Troye the reluctant protagonist, a young man with no appreciation for the world who comes out at the end an entirely new person who's now in love with life and all its beauties. Nurse Jackie would most likely be the guide helping him on this great and unrealistic journey to supposed enlightenment and Connor...

Well, if he's being honest, Connor would definitely be the love interest in this scenario. He wonders if they'd end up together in the end or instead make some statement about not needing romantic love to be happy or whatever.

Troye shivers involuntarily.

Beside him, Connor casts him a curious look but doesn't comment, instead turning to glance off down the hall in the opposite direction from Troye. "I can show you, if you want," he offers sweetly, giving Troye a gentle smile that reaches far past his still bloodshot eyes.

Troye narrows his eyes at him, wondering how someone could ever seem so full of light, especially in a place like this. It's the kind of light that's dull but steady, the uninterrupted white glow of a candle against Troye's raging inferno of a forest fire.

It makes him feel a little less spiteful to the entire human race, seeing the way it flickers across this stranger's face with such a graceful beauty. Maybe not _everyone_ is absolutely terrible.

"Yeah," Troye replies, catching himself staring and blinking as he flicks his eyes away. "That'd be cool."

He highly doubts this is going to end with some huge statement on not needing love to be happy. He also highly doubts there will be anything but one less week of his unwanted life left at the end of this.

 

×

 

They're on the roof, which has quickly become their go-to location for escaping the reality of their current situation. It's not really the roof, more like an outcropping on the floor above theirs that happens to be outside, and Troye was almost a little disappointed to note the high railings around the edge of it the day they first came up here. Still, it was hard to feel disappointed at all when Connor was grinning so widely at the prospect of a single taste of freedom, inhaling like he could drag the whole world into him with just one breath. Troye wasn't sure why he wanted to, the world is an awful place, but it was fascinating to watch nevertheless.

Now, Troye's leaned against the high glass railings looking down on the quiet hospital parking lot while Connor fiddles with his jacket sleeves, perched on one of the three camping chairs someone had abandoned here before they found it. Troye won't notice, too wrapped up in trying to make up the life of the lone woman walking to her car, but Connor's eyes keep darting to his back, to the slope of his shoulders and the nape of his neck and his hair tousled by the October wind. He's taking slow breaths, gnawing on his lower lip as his hands twist into the cuffs of his jacket sleeves and he watches Troye frown down at the city beneath their feet.

"Why did you do it?" he blurts before he can stop himself because they've been attached at the hip for a week and he's been wanting to know from the moment they met.

Troye turns his head with a confused furrow to his brows before taking in Connor's uncertain figure and shifting until he's leaned back against the railing with his entire body facing into their conversation. "Why did I do what?"

Connor stares at him, waging battles with his eyes that he knows he doesn't have enough strength to win. He bites his lip again, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. "Nevermind."

Troye merely raises an eyebrow at him, drawing his fingers into fists to protect them from the sting of the cold. "No," he replies firmly. "Why did I do what?"

And he knows. He knows exactly what Connor's referring to the second he refuses to meet Troye's eyes and all he can do is sigh because yeah, it's a valid question. He was consistently surprised all week long when no one but his mandated counselor asked and had henceforth been expecting it since he got stuck in this shit-hole.

It's a big question. He's not sure how to answer, not sure what Connor wants to hear because everybody wants to hear something and Troye's getting awfully tired of having to keep track.

He rubs at his shoulder where there's still a thick white bandage plastered over slowly scarring tissue.

"I don't know," he says eventually, because Connor is Connor and he's realizing he doesn't have any reason to lie to him. "It was a lot of things, I guess."

"Did you-" Connor starts but doesn't finish, biting at his lips and looking away. Troye doesn't like this subject of conversation, would much rather just fall back into the easy banter they've had flowing meaninglessly between them for nearly a week now, but somewhere in him he feels almost relieved to be able to tell someone who doesn't know his family or is looking for diagnosable issues with his psyche to write him a prescription for some meds and send him on his way.

It feels nice to have someone he knows is asking only because they care, because they're concerned, and not just so they can make sure all the blame's on him instead of them. It's weird to think that he's probably closer to this arguable stranger than he is people he's known all seventeen years of his life.

"Did I what?" he prods because this will probably make them that much closer and he'd be lying if he said he didn't wish they could be something. Troye's not exactly sure what, has never in his life really wanted anyone else to be a part of his existence, but he knows somewhere in him that's just been brought to light that he wants Connor to be important. He doesn't want to just leave in a day or two or however long it takes for the shrink to cut him loose and never see those bright green eyes again. He wants...

He wants _something_ , which is terrifying in and of itself because Troye has never wanted anything but to disappear.

Connor hesitates for another minute, his voice uncertain and quiet like he's scared he's stepping straight onto a fault line as he finally inquires softly, "How did you do it?"

Troye keeps their eyes locked together when Connor's finally flit back to meet his. He rubs at his shoulder. "I used a gun."

He watches Connor's eyes go wide, the breath knocked completely out of him as his eyes follow Troye's hand to his shoulder and stare. Hunching in on himself, he folds his jacket tighter across him and doesn't meet Troye's eyes again.

They're silent for a long moment after that. So long Troye turns his head back to watch the city below, this time his eyes finding the path of a young father and his little girl making their way inside the hospital. Cancer, he thinks, noting the headscarf wrapped firmly around her head, bright enough to see even from this distance. Or maybe it's a brain tumour, he wonders absently.

He almost misses it when Connor speaks up again, hunched in on himself even more now as he keeps green eyes glued resolutely to the ground.

"I thought about it, once," he says and then pauses, kicking at the cement as he lets out a nervous laugh. "When they told me the walls of my heart were too thin and I could die just from falling down too hard or something stupid. I watched my mom start crying and I thought maybe it would be better if I didn't exist anymore. No one would have to die just so I could have a new heart and my parents wouldn't have to be so paranoid of losing me that they'd rather me be here where they can't even visit than home with my family."

Troye watches him thoughtfully as he shifts his feet against the cold concrete floor, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as his stunning green eyes remained fix on the white weave of the chair he's sitting on. Letting out a breath, Troye glances down at where the little girl and her father have just made it to the doors.

"My brother grabbed it before I could fire. It ended up going off on my shoulder instead. I woke up in a stupid flowery hospital bed with a nurse telling me how lucky I was and another saying how selfish I was because there were kids there who were dying and didn't want to be and here I was throwing away a perfectly healthy, _good_ life. All I could think was that I wished Steele hadn't been home because then I wouldn't have had to be there, listening to that bullshit. I remember hoping I'd get an infection or something and die anyway."

He pauses, sighing heavily.

"But I also remember right before I was about to pull the trigger. Like, my life didn't flash before my eyes or any of that shit, but I just found myself thinking that this was it, this was my whole life, you know? That was all I was going to get and why hadn't I done more with it? It's pathetic. I'm pathetic."

Connor's voice is gentle when he cuts in softly, "That's the depression talking, Troye."

And Troye just laughs at that because "I'm not depressed."

"Troye-" Connor tries again, frowning hard now and probably about to go off on how it's okay and he should accept it so he can get better or some shit he's heard a thousand times before. Troye doesn't let him finish.

"I'm not depressed," he interrupts more firmly this time. "I'm not sad. I'm angry and I'm terrified and I'm confused, but I don't have depression. It's just some stupid shit called like borderline personality disorder or something. It's barely even a thing."

He's shrugging like it's not a big deal, everything about his body language suggesting they might as well be casually discussing the weather, but there's something almost desperate in his stormy blue eyes as they land on the boy across from him. Connor watches back carefully, his own usually obvious expression for once entirely unreadable. They've barely known each other for a week, but somehow as their eyes remain glued together and searching each other for the things they've never found in anyone else, it feels like a week has stretched into a lifetime. Maybe it has. Troye certainly feels like he's lived more in this past week with Connor than he has the rest of his entirely pathetic life.

Maybe this is going to end in some great revelation of enlightenment, after all.

"It _is_ a thing," his companion says finally, his expression turning as soft as it always is as he offers Troye a small smile. "And I'm sure you'll figure out how to manage it."

Troye can't help the laugh that escapes him. "Yeah, right."

Catching sight of Connor's still gentle expression, lit by the yellow lamplight of the hospital and the white glow of the moon, he breathes out a sharp breath and amends, "I hope so. Thanks."

He's thanking him for more than just telling him he'll be okay and Connor knows that, too. He smiles again, pushing himself up from his chair to wrap this arms around the taller boy.

It's nice, nicer than any touch Troye has ever felt in his life. It's warm against the fresh night air and firm against the curves of their bodies melding together. Connor feels like reassurance and hope, both things Troye had forgotten the comfort of.

He sighs, wrapping his arms around his friend's compact figure and leaning back against the railing with him situated firmly in his hold. He kisses the top of his head, the side of his face, and then buries his own head into the crook of his neck and takes a deep breath of lemon soap to keep from crumbling to the concrete.

Connor's definitely the love interest.

 

×

 

"I think I love you," Connor admits to him on his twelfth night at the hospital. They're on the roof again, as they are most nights now, huddled together in one chair to fight off the increasing chill of October in the air. "Maybe not like that, not yet, but I care about you more than I've ever cared about anyone who wasn't family."

Troye hums in agreement, running a bare hand down his jacket-clad arm and pulling him tighter against his chest. Connor leans his head back on his shoulder, his good one, and finds himself watching the stars. He's a little otherworldly in the nightlight, the moon reflected like a beacon in his lively green eyes and the stars drawing patterns across his mole-spattered skin.

"You'll get out of here, soon," Connor continues as Troye turns his head up to watch the same sky as him. "I'll get a heart soon, too. I just... I don't want this to be it, you know? I need you. It's like- Like you're the only person I can just be myself around anymore. With my family I have to keep dimming down any happiness I feel, anything good, because any time I don't they're terrified I'm okay with the idea of dying. I kept trying to just go back to how it was before we went to the doctor's and I just-

"I wish I could remember it better. I wish I'd done more. I used to dream about doing so much and being so much and travelling the world and all these crazies things and I realized that I don't anymore. I'm sorry, I'm probably not making any sense," he finishes, laughing nervously as he turns to bury his face into the side of Troye's neck. His lips brush against the pulse point there, the steady beating of a heart that still isn't sure it wants to keep pounding.

Except, looking down at Connor and his bright eyes in the moonlight and his cute nervous laugh, Troye finds himself not hating life for the first time in a long time. Connor seems to have that effect on him a lot: drawing out things Troye hasn't seen in years. It's like he had a hundred locked chests full of this stuff before he came here and now Connor has somehow managed to not only dig them all up, but unlock a fair amount of them as well. He's taken out the puzzle pieces from inside and fit them back in where they belong, fitting himself in right along with them.

Maybe that's just what love of any kind is. It's not like Troye would know.

"I get it," Troye mumbles softly as Connor's breath ghosts across his neck. It's a warm counter to the frigid breeze that's picked up around them, welcome in the way it prickles across his skin and down his spine with a shiver. "Everything's different now and you wish it wasn't because it was so much better before. I know the feeling."

Connor hums, the vibrations running straight through the chasms of Troye's chest and into his heart, electricity jolting it to life a little longer. "Then again, I wouldn't have met you if things hadn't changed like they did."

He pulls away from Troye, a contemplative expression on his face as he waits for him to meet his soft green eyes. "You're my best friend," he says firmly, like he doesn't have a single reason to even consider doubting that fact.

Troye sighs. "I know that feeling, too."

Connor smacks him, rolling his eyes as he settles back into his arms.

Troye thinks he loves him a little then, too, though it might actually be in _that_ way.

 

×

 

On his eighteenth night in the psychiatric ward, Connor kisses him. Obviously, they're huddled together on the roof again as Troye wonders if it might actually start snowing in October since it's so cold and Connor watches his expressions twitch with fond amusement.

There's no great suspenseful buildup or slow lean in. One minute Troye's got his head perched on Connor's shoulder, his arms looped around his waist and chest pressed to his back, and the next Connor's turned his head to brush their lips together.

Connor's smile is soft and sweet so his lips are soft and sweet and for a moment Troye forgets about the scar on his shoulder and the ones on his mind and the fact that soon he's going to have to go back to a family he hates and a house he hates and a life he doesn't want to live.

When it ends, Troye finds himself smiling back.

 

×

 

"This is going to fuck me over," Troye states suddenly five days later. Connor looks down at his head resting in his lap, raising one questioning eyebrow. The headboard behind him creaks eerily, the awful lighting still just as unnerving as the day Troye was introduced to his homely new room.

"Leaving," he explains after a second, staring resolutely at the cement dungeon ceiling above them. "Leaving you and going back to them."

Connor makes a noise of understanding, combing a calming hand through Troye's tangled mess of curls. "It's almost Halloween," he comments, easily guiding the subject of conversation toward a different path.

"I've been here twenty-three days," Troye breathes, ignoring his efforts. "They told me two weeks at most. Maybe they decided it'd be better just to leave me here. More hassle keeping me from killing myself than I'm really worth, right?"

"Troye," Connor states firmly.

"Mum probably would have killed me in the womb when it was legal if she'd known I'd turn out like this. Too late now unless she wants to go to prison for the rest of her life. Better just to leave me be and let me do it for her."

"Troye." Connor's voice is softer now than he's ever heard it. He doesn't realize he's crying until a hand comes down to swipe across his cheeks and run comfortingly along his arm.

He laughs, wet with tears he hadn't meant to shed, and it chokes off into a sob as he digs the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. He can feel an arm scooping under him, another wrapping over him, and then he's drawn to sit in Connor's lap and be pulled into his chest. Troye knows there's words being whispered into his hair, but he doesn't have the strength to both listen and cling to this beautiful boy like he's all he has left. The irony of it all is that Troye's pretty sure he is.

He curls into Connor like a ship sinking beneath the ocean waves, finding heavy anchor against the sea floor. He hasn't cried since he ripped his stitches in his sleep three weeks ago and they had to redo them and before that not since he was fifteen and still learning that 'mental illness' was not in his parents' vocabulary. It feels long overdue to fist his hands into a wrinkled T-shirt and press his face into a hard shoulder, to tremble like an earthquake against a pure force of gravity and close his eyes without worrying all the light in the world will be gone when he opens them.

Troye crumbles at the same speed Connor stitches him back together.

"I liked being angry better than this," he chokes out, digging blunt nails into the back he's clinging so desperately to.

"No," Connor assures him softly, rubbing gentle hands over the creases of his spine and the curve of his shoulders. "You didn't."

Troye laughs. Isn't it funny that someone he's known less than a month is more sure of him than he is himself?

"No," he repeats because Connor's always right about him. "I didn't."

He cries himself to sleep in the first pair of arms he's taken comfort in since he was ten and crawling into his parents' bed after a nightmare. When he woke to his father's disappointed expression and his mother's irritated exhaustion, he never did it again.

Tonight, he cries himself to sleep in a warm pair of arms and wakes with them still wrapped firmly around him. He doesn't ever want to leave.

Maybe love isn't unlocking boxes or putting puzzle pieces together. Maybe love is more like poison ivy winding through bodies, wrapping so tight around their hearts they nearly burst and infecting everything it touches with a burning fear of being away from the person you love for too long.

It's not like Troye would know.

 

×

 

Troye stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jumper and squints down at the parking lot below.

"Dr. Albaden thinks I'm doing better. My parents are coming to get me tomorrow."

Connor wraps his arms around his waist, pressing into his back to keep warm as he rests his forehead on his scarred shoulder.

"UNOS found a heart. Some guy they're pulling the plug on tomorrow morning."

Troye laughs. Connor kisses him. He tries not to feel like it's an ending.

 

×

 

His parents' shoes are both shimmering black in the lowlight of the hallway. His father's shirt is deep blue, printed with hollow squares of dark green nearly the exact opposite to eyes Troye loves so much. His mother's dress is pale beige slipping past her knees, a pattern of painted pink Japanese flowers flowing pristinely up one side. Their hair is styled perfectly, not a strand out of place, and pulled back to show the contempt curling through the windows to the empty spaces where their souls should be.

Their smiles are lit with false happiness and affection, tears as tributes to their acting skills falling down well-rested faces as they look upon their middle son. His mother's arms are open like she actually expects him to hug her after five years of nothing and he finds his fingers twitching for something sharp again. He's not sure if it's for himself or her.

Connor slips a hand into his, warding away the dim darkness with his effervescent light. His smile is warm and affectionate and not at all false, his eyes encouraging and kind just as they always are. Troye's glad he didn't get some doe-eyed damsel in distress for a love interest. It definitely would have turned into a statement on finding happiness alone if that were the case.

"I never thought I'd say this," Troye rolls off slowly, "but I wish I could stay here. At least until I'm eighteen and can go off on my own. I've got savings, I could do it."

His whole expression brightens up suddenly, completely unaware of the amused laughter Connor's barely holding back. "Maybe I'll just run away. Oh my God, Connor, let's run away together. We can elope. I mean like not officially until we turn eighteen but we could at least getting the running away part over with before then."

Connor laughs, smacking his good shoulder and rolling his eyes fondly. "Yeah, sure. You get the food and I'll find the horse."

"What? No. We're hijacking a Lamborghini, obviously."

"My bad," Connor concedes, letting out another quiet laugh as he gives him a lop-sided grin. Troye chuckles lightly, too, but eventually their laughter dies off into heavy silence.

Troye sighs. "They make me feel like I'm drowning." He doesn't have to specify who 'they' are; Connor glances over at the couple waiting by the end of the hall with a sad expression. "You make me feel like I can breathe again. Like I have a reason to."

Connor's smile is small and resigned this time. "I can't be the reason you keep breathing, Troye. That's not healthy."

"No," Troye admits, "but you can clear the air a little bit. That's healthy, right?"

Running a hand down Troye's cheek, Connor's voice is quiet. "Right."

"Don't..." he starts again a moment later before trailing off and shaking his head. Troye gives him a firm look, combing his own hand through Connor's soft hair. Everything about him is soft, soft and warm and comforting and lovable in a way nothing has ever been to Troye. "You'll come visit after my surgery, right?"

Troye's smile is pained but there as he drops his hand to Connor's chest. He presses gently until he can feel his heartbeat pulsing away beneath his fingertips, the life inside it so close to the surface he's almost worried a new heart will mean a new Connor. But all it takes is one look at those beautiful green eyes and he knows Connor will always be Connor, whether he's got all his original parts or not. Connor is Connor and Troye definitely loves him.

"I'll be there," he says softly, watching the way Connor's shirt bunches between his fingers and around the palm of his hand. "We'll run away together."

Connor grins, leaning up to peck his cheek. "Make sure the Lamborghini's ready."

And this time when Troye smiles it isn't the first of anything, but it's the last of so much. It's the last smile he'll give in these hallways, on this floor, in front of his parents. It's the last thing Connor will think of as the anesthesia runs through him on the operating table tonight. It's the last truth Troye will tell his family until two months from now when he scrawls across a torn page from his well-loved notebook 'I'm happy,' and leaves it pinned onto the fridge. It's an ending. A chapter closing and the afterword looped in red pen across the empty back pages.

He doesn't feel so much like he's drowning when he makes his way back to his parents. It doesn't even hurt when his mother wraps bony arms around him too coldly or his father slaps him on the back too harshly. When he passes nurse Jackie on the way out, she smiles at him.

"Wasn't so bad after all, now was it?" she asks, a knowing glint to her eye. Troye laughs, ignoring the startled look it draws out of his parents.

"No," he tells her like they're sharing a secret. "I guess it wasn't."

If nothing else, Troye at least likes how clean the air feels now. So maybe he doesn't hate the _whole_ world, just most of it.

If he's honest, though, he doesn't think he can hate the world at all anymore when something as good as Connor came out of it.

 

× _If love's elastic then were we born to test its reach? Is it buried_ _treasure_ _or just a single puzzle piece? It's poison ivy beneath our brave and trusting feet, but all revelations come to us in recovery._ ×


End file.
